Oh My Juliet!
by Bondmaiden
Summary: A world where Akashi is a fashion designer who's keen on Kuroko, Kuroko is a typical kindergarten teacher who needs a suit, and Kise's the one who's forcing Kuroko to get a suit so that he would come to the award ceremony. /AkaKuro AU - Fashion Designer/
1. Fashion

**A/N: **_i just wanted fashion designer akashi. with his hair swept back. that's the only salvation left. __chii's __birthday (akashikuroko tumblr) is around the corner and this is the only thing i can come up with: crossdressing kuroko. also, any grammatical errors + plot stuffs + characterizations that you find odd as heck, everything is totally my fault 100%, but hopefully this fic will come off as funny + cliched + light as what it should be._

* * *

><p>At 10:00 p.m., Kise's shoved him into a striped sweater and a pair of jeans, calling them easy to be removed. Apparently, ease of clothing removal is an absolute necessity for tonight's agenda. Kuroko doesn't argue much about it; the hoodie is his favourite gift from his mother and the jeans are well-worn, so he knows he can go in and out of them in five-seconds flat. Kise's got half the mind to attack his hair with a spray and some serum, but he probably figured that he'd give Kuroko a chance to redeem himself. The blond pushes a round brush into his hand (some golden hair are sticking out from it, Kuroko notes) and tells Kuroko to tame some of the unruly spikes on his head.<p>

_Fine._ Kuroko mulishly flattens the bush he calls his hair and ignores the pointed look on Kise's face when a few wild tufts still rebelled like a teenager.

"One of these days, I'll use Akashicchi's scissors to cut your hair." Kise flatly tells him, crossing his arms over his chest. "Actually, why don't you let me take you to a salon? I'll pay for it, you know."

"Please stop paying for me," Kuroko says. His hair has its own free will and he's not going to smother them in some icky sticky goopy glob that Kise calls Schwarzkopf hair gel. "You know it doesn't sit well with my conscience, Kise-kun."

Kise opens his mouth to argue, but emits a half-strangled cry once he realises that it's already fifteen minutes after ten, and hurriedly grabs Kuroko by the shoulders. He shoves the slighter man out of the door, stumbling into the hallway with the expression of someone who's seen a murderer on the sidewalk, and keeps muttering in exasperation, "Akashicchi is gonna kill us for being late," like it's a chant to keep evil away. They got out of Kuroko's dingy apartment in two minutes (plus one, since Kuroko forgot to grab his keys on the way out) and as soon as the unreliably shaky apartment elevator dinged at their floor, Kise smacks the buttons to close and doesn't forget to press LG to get to the parking lot.

Squeezed between two crumbling pillars dented with many scratches from cars who've valiantly scraped past them is Kise's Range Rover Evoque, and the car soundlessly unlocks itself once the owner approaches. Kuroko doesn't do much other than to get into the passenger seat beside Kise, cringing at the acrid brand of car perfume that the blond utterly loves, and straps on his seatbelt. Comparing Kuroko's measly ¥770,000 Honda Fit that he bought through countless overtimes at the 7-11 whilst juggling his teaching schedule, Kise's fiercely golden Evoque probably has a price tag of somewhere way above Kuroko's annual income.

"I'm going to drive fast to get us there on time, so hold on tight, Kurokocchi," Kise warns, starting up the 4WD with a press of a button. "He'll be so pissed… hell hath no fury like Akashicchi's." The car smoothly rolls out of the tight spot, bending around sharp edges and avoiding pillars like it isn't a gargantuan ride, and Kise expertly hikes up the speed once they're both out of the apartment's miserable parking lot. "But if you ask me, there's no one else who knows better about clothes than him. He'll be my tailor until I die, seriously. That's why I put up with him."

_This_, Kuroko realizes, is why he hates the lifestyle of the rich and famous.

This 'Akashicchi' character sounds shady from the start.

If not for the fact that Kuroko's newest suit will be sponsored by none other than the six-time-award-winning Japan Academy Prize Kise Ryōta, he wouldn't even dream of going anywhere near him even with a ten foot pole. The orange street lamps flash past them in a series of lights as Kuroko mulls over the option of declining Kise's invitation to his award party just so that he can avoid potential death from an unstable tailor, but _every single one of his friends_ from Teiko will be attending Kise's night of honour too. Momoi's been harping on and on about it in their LINE group chat, snapping shots of herself in various night dresses to get their opinion, and even Murasakibara will be flying back from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris just for their long-awaited reunion.

And that's something, coming from the laziest member of the bunch.

The gliding car comes to a smooth halt before an ominously scarlet traffic light and Kise thumps his hands over the steering wheel, cursing slightly under his breath. "I should've rung him up to say that we're going to be late."

_Yes, yes you should've_, Kuroko parrots internally. _Maybe that will save us from all this trouble._ But he says nothing to add to Kise's growing agitation, and merely fingers the fine yellow threads binding the dark leather upholster.

Something about his life feels as fragile as the thinly spun thread itself, and he wonders if Akashi's sharp scissors will snip him apart.

* * *

><p>They're led to a designer mansion (by mansion, he means a classy apartment with a monthly rent that makes him think of Kise's Evoque as some cheap accessory) and Kuroko steps out of the car onto a silver platform that strangely resembles an oversized tray for a car. Kise shuts off the engine with a click of a button and yanks Kuroko by his forearm, dragging him to the side. A strange-looking panel with many buttons has Kuroko peering at the strange combination until Kise hurriedly keys in a series of numbers, and quite suddenly, the silver plate holding Kise's car begins to swivel in a spot before descending into the ground. With a blink, the SUV is gone and what's left of the spot is just another empty silver platform, like some sort of fancy magical trick for the rich and fabulous.<p>

Shaking his head, Kuroko follows Kise through the courtyard and past the saluting watch guards, heading right into a gaudily decorated foyer. Bright chandeliers dangle above their heads, blue locks glowing amber at the intensity, and Kuroko squints at the light. Unperturbed, Kise merely hits the button to go up, restlessly tapping his foot and chanting, "Please don't get mad, please don't get mad, please don't get mad," under his breath as a prayer. Once the lift reaches G, a pretty little chime announces its arrival and they step into the glass box. Kuroko takes a moment to appreciate a woodblock print hanging on the mirror wall as if it's some art exhibition and ponders on its aesthetics as a fretting Kise paces.

Nervously checking his phone, the taller man sighs. "Well, he didn't call me yet. That means there's still hope, right?"

"I don't know Akashi-san personally, so I can't say," Kuroko replies. The digital red numbers gleam like fresh blood timer on the panel, counting up to the minutes they have to live, and once they reach 4, Kuroko clears his throat to shut a wailing Kise up. "I'm sure he will be a rational man, Kise-kun," he says, though it's more of an effort to convince himself than the other man. "You've been his acquaintance for a while, and I'm sure you've been late on numerous occasion. He's probably grown immune of your tardiness."

The lift doors rattle as they slide open with Kise crying, "That's so mean, Kurokocchi!" in the background.

On the other hand, Kuroko's treated to the sight of an odd-looking man standing before them. Definitely not just another passenger waiting to get a ride with them. One piercing look from him has Kuroko thinking of pins and needles jabbed into a mannequin's body.

His artily styled crimson hair is swept back, short bangs falling over his forehead and framing his youthful face, and his deep scarlet eyes are sharp. In hindsight, Kuroko should've known that all those reds he encountered along the way are premonitions of sorts. Sartorial choices, dress shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, paired with fitted slacks and shiny formal shoes, the stranger gives off a subtle air of amiability.

That is, until a crooked smile splits his handsome face.

"Kise, you're late."

So there they are; Kuroko's treated to some tea that is assuredly expensive if he had a finer palate, while Kise bawls in the background like a kindergartener on his first day of school. The cushion he's sitting on is uncomfortable, more like a decorative ornament than serving its true purpose as something meant to be sat on, but he doesn't voice his complaints. Not when Akashi's keeping away a pair of scissors from his work table—yellow handles, Kuroko notes, and properly stows this memory inside his head in case he needs to recite the tragic event to policemen later on.

"But I got off from the shoot late!" is what Kise whines, hiding his face behind his hands. "You should be angry at the crew, not at me!"

"Then you should've reconsidered asking me tomorrow," says Akashi.

"But I have another CM to shoot tomorrow!"

"Then the day after that?" Akashi cooly replies, cocking a brow. At Kise's undignified silence, Kuroko could see Akashi victoriously mounting a white horse and parading all over with his victory. "Even if you just won the Japan Academy Prize for your latest film, Perfect Copy, you should've thought about it long and hard. I might've been busy, you know."

Refusing to be shot down, Kise tries again. "It's just thirty minutes—"

"—one more word out of you, and I'll send the both of you home," Akashi warns, brandishing his ballpoint pen menacingly.

Kuroko jerks at the threat. Suddenly _he's_ also included in the target for abuse? It's like dealing with kindergarteners all over again, only with adults this time. Feeling quite attacked at the onslaught, he puts away the teacup and exhales softly. "I would appreciate it if you can take out your anger only on Kise-kun. Please leave me out of this." As if that was damage control, with Kise sniffling in the background at Kuroko's traitorous ways. "I don't have enough money to pay your services, Akashi-san, so by right, I shouldn't even be here. But since Kise-kun will be sponsoring my suit, I have no choice. If not, I would've worn my other suit for his party."

The blond manages to summon an offended face at that statement, wiping his eyes. "Ew no, Kurokocchi. They didn't fit you at all. You looked like a kitchen rubber glove."

"At least it isn't yellow like your hair," Kuroko shoots back. Kise visibly deflates at the personal attack and retreats, counting his prayers that so far Akashi hasn't mauled him yet. Appeased at the man's deference, Kuroko lifts his cup and sips from it. "We're sorry for being late, Akashi-san. I hope you'll forgive Kise-kun again."

Gaining Akashi's approval isn't simple.

But Kuroko thinks he somewhat managed something with his words when the redhead leaves him alone after a minute of scrutiny. He returns from one of the nearby rooms, brandishing a roll of plastic measuring tape in one finger and an iPad in another hand. What an iPad has anything to do with sewing, Kuroko has absolutely zero idea. Akashi flicks through a few things on the screen with intense precision like he's memorised the buttons and finally settles on an application once a bright blue light is reflected in his slanted eyes.

"Stand up," he orders.

Kuroko does.

Instead of professionally strangling him with the tape, Akashi hooks a finger underneath the lapel of his hoodie and pinches the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. As though dissatisfied by the store-bought quality, he promptly withdraws his hand. Their height difference is marginal, but the intensity lit in Akashi's eyes disturbs him all the more, like he's dissecting Kuroko and contemplating of making a mannequin out of him. Oh, you know, just stab Kuroko's neck, cut all the way down, remove his organs, and stuff him with cotton to prop him up. Especially when Akashi's wispy brows are drawn together and his lips curl. That thought has Kuroko shuddering inwardly and he stomps it down.

When Akashi draws closer half a step with a frown, he orders again:

"Please strip, Kuroko. Now."

It's expected, of course, that's why he wore the sweater. That doesn't explain why Akashi's eyes are violently surveying him like he's some sort of private property with a signboard tacked on his forehead. But Kuroko's seen his fair share of man-nipples in the private locker rooms of Teiko and Seirin—even Kiyoshi's hairy ones, and he figures that Akashi has a collection of his own memories, so he obliges with a shrug. A simple tug on the zipper, a whoosh of fabric, Kuroko invites the sharp nip of cold air-conditioning on his bare skin as he deposits his clothing on the chair.

"Awww, Kurokocchi's still so cute!" Kise gushes from his corner of shame. "You're still the smallest among all of us!"

"Please stop harassing me, Kise-kun."

"You're still unforgiven, Kise," Akashi reminds him, and that shuts him up quicker than everything else could have.

Satisfied, Akashi unrolls the tape and promptly invades Kuroko's private space once more. Warm breath fans Kuroko's cheek—too close, he mentally chastises—as Akashi lowers his spine by half an inch to press a cold metallic tip on Kuroko's shoulder. He's just taking Kuroko's measurement and he's not exactly doing anything else that should breach the law (like making a noose of the tape). Kuroko's reminded of a surgeon when Akashi sizes him up.

He's meticulous, whipping his tape around like Nijimura's black karate belt. Too sedate for someone supposedly rich and famous, unlike Kise. That and the dark rings under his eyes says more than enough about his working ethics.

Kuroko's initial impression of star-class tailors is that they're gaudy creatures who slap on anything they deem remotely fashionable. Pink is in season? Pink necktie it is. Stripes are good for pants? Stripes all the way. Big, cartoon-looking buttons are hot? Definitely putting on a whole bunch of them on the next line. Their pretentious attitude also tends to tick Kuroko off, from the slew of Hollywood and Japanese movies he's watched, and he's almost half expecting Akashi to break out a pair of sunnies like some sort of capricious couturier.

But no.

He doesn't do anything from Kuroko's no-no list, let alone approach it.

Akashi is just a fetching designer, and nothing like the stereotypical ones.

Kuroko almost jumps when Akashi drops onto his knees and has his nose in front of Kuroko's crotch. He'd never thought of the day where he'd see another man with him in this intimate position (though, nothing about his current situation is remotely intimate). Feeling somewhat violated, Kuroko sends Kise a withering look, and the blond silently returns it with a pout, hugging a cushion tightly. If anything, he looks envious of Akashi right now and would trade his soul to Satan just to switch bodies.

The tape slithers from Kuroko's midsection right down to his pelvis, where it constricts snugly over his crotch. Oh boy. Akashi looks like he's nosed more groin than he ever wanted in a lifetime, blasé, and notes the final measurements before straightening up. He doesn't make eye-contact with the man he discreetly ravished; instead, he goes to his tablet and taps in a few things on the screen.

Within seconds, the device emits a comical tinkle and he sets it down on the coffee table again.

It's only then he draws his eyes up to meet Kuroko's gaze, unwavering. "You have quite a small frame for a man. Are you Kise's age?"

Not sure whether he's vehemently offended or mildly chagrined, coming from the second smallest man in the room, Kuroko rubs his neck. "Yes, 22. I wasn't the most prominent of the basketball members back in Seirin."

"Kurokocchi's the shadow player I talked about," Kise gleefully supplies, batting his lashes. "Akashicchi, maybe we can get together and play sometime? Kurokocchi's a deadly opponent when it's time for face-off."

The redhead regards the blond with a contemplative stare. "All right, but definitely not this month." And that's that. Akashi turns back to Kuroko, dropping the conversation to tip his head indicatively. "Please turn around. I'll need the measurements from behind."

Now, Kuroko knows 'from behind' is far from suggestive in this context, but spending too much time growing up with lecherous Aomine and pining Kise does wonders to his brain. Their sexual harassments are starting to get to him. Discomfited with his train of thoughts, Kuroko follows as instructed and spins to face the transparent grand piano displayed alongside a matching violin in the distance. Akashi's tape returns to wrap around his chest with a vengeance, and it slides down to graze over Kuroko's nipples by accident.

This time, Kuroko jolts at the touch. His neck is fraught with restraint at the urge to emit some sound that could be provocatively misinterpreted.

"Ah." Akashi's voice is smooth by his ear, warm, making his skin crawl inexplicably. "My bad."

Like it happens all the time, Akashi adjusts the tape properly and makes sure that it's situated under his nipples instead of over it. And Kuroko's left all alone to contemplate why he thinks his cheeks are reddening without his consent, why his nipples are stiff, why his throat is itchy, and blames it on the blasted air-conditioner altogether.

* * *

><p>So it's a Wednesday, three days after their initial meeting, that Kuroko's hands twitch as he clicks on Google. The PC in the staff room lags a little when he boots up the program, but once it's done, his eyes scan the English Google page. Kagami must've left it here, he thinks, and checks the toolbar, only to see that the keyboard's been switched to English too. Great. Not quite computer-savvy, Kuroko musters his limited knowledge on the language from high school and shakily types in the letters one by one:<p>

**AKASHI**

As soon as he presses enter, the entire screen loads up red, red, red, maddening shades of red from various qualities of pictures splayed on the result page. It didn't quite bring up what he needed to know because there are a few dresses thrown in the mix, so Kuroko scans the links and finally picks up on a romanised full name. He hits enter and waits.

This time around, luck shines down on him. Akashi Seijuro is his full name ("Seijuro," Kuroko tests the name on his tongue and finds that it's like reaching the pinnacle of a mountain and rolling off the slope) and his collections are godly. Kuroko doesn't quite know how to appreciate how dresses should flow or how haute couture works, but a particular sundress has an orgy of colours and still turned out fashionable when Akashi worked his magic on it. Even the worst of fashion disasters metamorphosed into contemporary art if Akashi's involved. There's no possible way to explain how gifted he is in what he does.

Kuroko examines the smattering of flattering photographs depicting Akashi in his own design: smart, sleek, suave. Even when he poses beside Kyary Pamyu Pamyu—who's wearing an appalling combination courtesy of Sebastian Masuda, Akashi's regal stature separates the glass from the diamonds. A bit more intrigued than he should be, Kuroko clicks on a link and isn't really surprised that Akashi made the front cover of a Vogue magazine, something Kise's been struggling to get on.

His collection on NYC's recent runway met critical responses and they're all varying degrees of positivity, with reputed journalists calling his 'Spring 2014' collection as _phenomenal_ and _breathtaking_. The recurring palette is baby blue, cornflower blue, powder blue, just sallow blues on the rows, but something about the broad spectrum of twinkling turquoises, rich creams, sweet pinks and bold bronzes dotting his designs breaks the stereotype and beckons its viewers in an uncanny way. How he artistically plays with these conflicting colours are beyond Kuroko's comprehension, especially the details of the French appliqué.

Akashi's obviously in a league of his own, tromping down walkways in aviators and leather jackets.

A league too far away for a kindergarten teacher to afford.

Once it's 2:51 p.m., just close enough for Kuroko to gather his wits before confronting the wildlife of children in 3B for their nap time, he quits the browser and logs off, keeping the chair where it's supposed to be.

* * *

><p>Thursday morning has Kuroko falling out of his bed when he reads a message at 4:45 a.m.<p>

Warm medleys of flushed yellows and magenta spikes pierce the morning skies with sunrise, just falling in slivers through chintzy ¥100 Daiso blinds. His alarm set to go off at 6:00 hasn't even rung yet. Kuroko rubs Sandman's spell from his eyes, still woozy, and thinks that it's an elaborate joke in his hands. The foreign number on his cellphone mocks him on the screen with its silence.

**Date:** 3/7/2014  
><strong>Time:<strong> 4:44 a.m.  
><strong>Sender:<strong> 0118481414  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Address  
><strong>Message:<strong>  
><em>Good morning, Kuroko.<br>Your suit is almost complete. But I need you to wear it in case of a tight fit. I need your address._

He doesn't bother to introduce himself, but the words ooze Akashi all over its pixels.

For one, how did he get Kuroko's number? Kuroko wonders if he's accidentally exchanged numbers over some imaginary drunken nights together, but it isn't plausible because he's always sober (and Kise's the loud drunk, Aomine's the imaginary groper, Midorima's the embarrassing lightweight, while Murasakibara's a hungry monster in his alcoholic flush). Maybe Kise gave it to him. Yes, of course. Kuroko's full name and his number together like it's a name card for a dating site.

Knocking the unsteady shiver in his hand away, Kuroko hunches over his cellphone and punches in a civil reply.

**Date:** 3/7/2014  
><strong>Time:<strong> 4:47 a.m.  
><strong>Sender:<strong> 015114322  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: Address  
><strong>Message:<strong>  
><em>Good morning, Akashi-san.<br>Thank you for your hard work, but you needn't rush it. Anyway, here is my address. _

He inserts his address and hits send before his brain registers the automated process. Now that's out of the way, it's time for him to resume his sleep. But before Kuroko could even clamber from the floor and roll back into his lumpy mattress, his phone buzzes with a new reply.

**Date:** 3/7/2014  
><strong>Time:<strong> 4:48 a.m.  
><strong>Sender:<strong> 0118481414  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Thank you.  
><strong>Message:<strong>  
><em>I'm on my way.<em>

Kuroko stares.

_What._

(_the actual fuck_, Aomine would've added if he were in Kuroko's shoes.)

Scrambling onto his feet faster than Riko's spinning kick, the man nearly slips on his bathroom tiles and he fumbles for purchase on his sink. Shoving a toothbrush into his mouth and downing a capful of mouthwash to rinse it out, spearmint icing his tongue, Kuroko douses his bed hair in copious amounts of cold water in an effort to flatten it as much as he can. He breaks out of the bathroom in record time to bless his armpits with spray-on deodorant and sheathes an appropriate shirt and shorts just in time to catch his phone's next beep.

**Date:** 3/7/2014  
><strong>Time:<strong> 5:07 a.m.  
><strong>Sender:<strong> 0118481414  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Downstairs.  
><strong>Message:<strong>  
><em>Please come down.<em>

Kuroko's stomach does a pathetic flop at his uncanny punctuality.

He must've driven in such a way that could put an F1 racer to shame.

Not wanting to put much thought to how the redhead will terrorise him this time around, Kuroko pockets his phone and remembers to grab his keys this time as he heads outside. The morning chill creeps up his spine and he shudders at the poor warmth circulating in this dilapidated apartment, even inside the dimly lit elevator box. He gets off at G, sprinting out the frosted glass doors faster than he ever did on basketball courts, and catches himself before he comes hurling right at a certain redhead waiting for him.

And this time, Akashi's dark eye circles reminds Kuroko of Chinese pandas.

Despite his apparent lack of snooze, Akashi's still impeccably dressed in a dark, military-styled trench coat to combat the cold, though he's left it unbuttoned and his necktie loosened. He raises a brow when Kuroko stands ramrod straight in front of him, but acts like it's normal for them to rendezvous at sunrise. Suspicious, suspicious.

"Glad you could make it on time," Akashi says conversationally, though it doesn't look like he means it. It's more like a conversation setter to Kuroko. Gesturing to a car behind him, he motions for Kuroko to follow him. "Come with me."

Just a scant few meters behind, parked underneath a leafy tree, a burnished sienna sports car lies in wait. Kuroko discreetly pinches his arm behind his back, feels the sharp sting of pain, and thinks hard about Kise's Evoque. Comparing this slick beast to the bulky 4WD, Kuroko's sure that his Honda could be sold to a junkyard for ¥200. He's not big on cars, only identifying the ones he's seen on the road before, and an Evoque isn't so common in Tokyo—but this, this car is definitely one of a kind. Much like its owner, Kuroko notes.

Oblivious to Kuroko's internal accountant waging a war, Akashi opens the passenger's door and withdraws a covered coat hanger. When he turns around, it's only then he understands why Kuroko stands a few meters away from him, and more meters away from his car. Seemingly amused at the thought, he pats the roof and smiles broadly.

"Aston Martin's Vanquish," Akashi introduces his car like it's a lover who won't cheat on him. "It's the most discreet car I have at the moment in Tokyo. I'm waiting for my Mitsubishi Lancer to be shipped next week to replace this one."

Akashi's definition of discreet must've been on different tangents than Kuroko's. Maybe they used different dictionaries and referred to different definitions.

Not wanting to seem rude, Kuroko subtly gravitates away from the penny-pinching beast and manages to approach Akashi from another corner, accepting the clothing with care. He doesn't want to drop the things he obviously can't afford. "Thank you very much, Akashi-san," Kuroko says, all Japanese politeness that he's famed for. "I'm sorry for all the trouble that Kise-kun puts you through for this."

"Not at all, Kuroko, there is nothing you need to apologise for," Akashi smoothly rectifies him, giving a curt shake of his head. "It is my job and Kise is paying me to make your suit, so you are my customer. Moving on to more pressing matters, I need you to put on the suit to see if it's to your liking. If there are any additional adjustments, I need to take note of it now, as I'll be leaving for Paris in three hours."

Such is the lifestyle of the rich and fabulous, always rushing around, never settling down. Kuroko has no intention of stopping the redhead from going on his merry way with his craft scissors, but something's niggling his mind.

"How do I know if it's a good suit or not?" Kuroko asks. "I don't doubt your quality, Akashi-san, but maybe I'm used to improperly fitted suits. This is my first time having something tailored to my body."

To others, it sounds like a stupid question. To Kuroko, it's a weighty one. Kise is paying for this, after all, and he doesn't want to waste the blond's money, as much as the idiot actor dotes on him. He's a responsible adult, one who understands the life and trials of a man trying to make a decent living in an expensive city. Just being surrounded by his successful friends is sufficient reminder for Kuroko on a daily basis.

At first, Akashi doesn't say anything about his question. He rests his back against his minutely purring car and crosses his arms over the thick gabardine fabric. Kuroko's stuck in the middle of a silent crossfire, unsure of the safest direction to crash.

Then Akashi opens his mouth and offers his answer, though it's leaps and bounds far away from what Kuroko imagined.

"If it is to your liking, it will fit you. If it makes you uncomfortable, then you best return it to me, Kuroko. That is all."

Akashi's words are loosely threaded together, forming an indiscernible pattern, and Kuroko wonders if life is purposely sewing his fate closer to the redhead's.

But first, the suit. The rest of his worries will come later.


	2. Donatella

**A/N: **_thank you so much for everyone's enthusiastic response for this fic, reviewers midnightpuncher, evilrelena, akatsuki fatale, ikillatfirstsight, everlasting snow princess, eclipsekuran, vicious cabaret, lovenhateareboth4letterswords, aspergianstoryteller, mafia boss, pennameisblank, otakuteets, , and bloody gale ripper! Here's the second chapter, thank you for being patient with my slow as fuck updates haha ;D_

* * *

><p>Saturday is a disastrous date with Kise, who stirs his coffee and squints at the eye bags Kuroko's sporting.<p>

"What's gotten into you, Kurokocchi?" he asks, childlike innocence radiating for miles around. "Are the kids getting to you?"

In the midst of shoving the rest of his dirty laundry into a plastic bucket to substitute his lack of a proper laundry basket, Kuroko stops to look at Kise quietly. "No." Then he resumes combating the sweaty pile, punching the laundry ball into a fitting shape to fit his girlishly pink bucket. That's it. He doesn't add anything, just letting Kise sip his Nescafe and eye Kuroko warily as he crosses through the living room to dump the contents into a washing machine in the bathroom.

Kise's not as dumb as he looks like, what with the blond stereotypes going around whenever he's in Hollywood.

He's vaguely aware that something's amiss when Kuroko forgets their weekend liaison because he woke up late. If Kuroko's late, he's usually the night owl who fights to rectify 3 + 2 = 7 on children's homework. BUT. (A very big 'but' there, just for emphasis.) The coffee table's empty, no traces of kindergarten papers to be graded, and definitely no red pen caps lying around or on the tiny carpet. It's not about the kids. It's something else.

Pursing his lips, Kise tries again. "Is it about Akashicchi?"

Kuroko, on his way out of the bathroom, nearly trips on the rug.

"Oh." Jackpot. Kise hums, contemplatively stirring his coffee again. So he's right. "What did Akashicchi do? Traumatise you?"

"No."

"Groped you?"

Kuroko shoots him a withering look of disbelief, shaking his head. He hauls the bucket back into his room, dropping it by the cupboard with a clatter, and goes out again to join his friend. "Akashi-san doesn't seem to be that kind of person," he says, dropping into a seat across the blond. "He came last Thursday so that I can try on the suit."

Kise rolls his eyes. _Ooookay._ Looks like worming something out from him will take longer than he thought. "Akashicchi does that all the time. Let me guess, he probably told you to get down at some weird hour in the morning?"

Fluidly, Kuroko recites: "4:44 a.m. while almost everyone in Japan is still sleeping."

"Right." Kise drains the coffee from the mug, refills it from the jug by the corner, and polished off another quarter of the drink. He doesn't bother to mention that Kuroko's obviously lost his head in the clouds, what with him not actually starting up the washing machine earlier even though he's trying to do his laundry. So Kise tries another tactic: frontal assault. "Did Akashicchi charm you, Kurokocchi?"

That gets a solid reaction out of the slighter man.

"No," he denies, but his left leg is restlessly rocking back and forth like he's waiting for something—or someone. "And besides, Kise-kun, I'm not gay." To add more oomph to his declaration of complete and utter denial, Kuroko turns away and busies himself with filling another cup of coffee. "Akashi-san is just a tailor that Kise-kun introduced to me, that's it."

What a weak argument; Kise's heard better from Aomine the first time he was caught eyeing Kagami's ass after a basketball game. Resisting the urge to tell Kuroko that he's in too deep (and quite possibly terrorising the boy right into his comfortable heterosexual habitat again), Kise goes the other way round. "It's okay, Akashicchi has that kind of effect on everyone. Pretty sure that Hirai Ken also had his eyes on him for a few months after Akashicchi designed the suit for his MV last year."

His words seem to doing a good job when Kuroko's eyes zeroed on him, round and bright blue. "Really." But he doesn't sound convinced.

_Not yet_, Kise comforts himself. Cornering a scared animal isn't a job for the impatient. Good thing Kise's always patient and lenient when it comes to Kuroko—especially when he's about to awaken Kuroko as _**one of them**_. "I don't know what's Akashicchi's sexuality, but Ken-san is definitely gay." He pauses. "Actually, everyone loves Akashicchi so we can just label this as Akashicchisexual. No need to be shy about it, Kurokocchi!"

Kuroko looks at him in _that_ kind of way as though he's suggesting that Kise should be admitted into the nearest mental care available. Then he shakes his head, taking a dainty sip from his mug. "I'm not Akashisexual, Kise-kun, please do not get the wrong idea. I just had to return the suit to him afterwards because I felt like it didn't fit me at some parts."

Kise blinks. As far as he knows, Akashi doesn't make mistakes when it involves his creations. So where, exactly, did he go wrong?

Kuroko only reaches over to grab the remote, switches on the TV, and boosts the volume to 40. Their conversation is, most unfortunately, left hanging.

* * *

><p>On Monday morning, Kagami's less than stellar about Kuroko's darker eye bags and gloomy disposition, especially when Kuroko tactfully confronts him in the empty staff room with: "Kagami-kun, please be honest with me: Am I gay?"<p>

"What."

He doesn't remember his jaw going slacker than this—other than trying to fit Aomine's dick in his mouth, and that's another story for another time. But Kuroko looks at him with those eyes, _those_ eyes that are imploring him to sit down and think well about what he's going to say, so Kagami drags a stool and makes his sore ass as comfortable as possible on it.

As Kuroko's partner in fighting the daily hoard of terrorists (read: children) in the classrooms, Kagami prides himself on being a good friend whom Kuroko enjoys hanging out with. They've chatted about plenty of things over midnight milkshakes, played sweaty basketball together in Seirin, thought about their complicated future studies, and he's sure that if he holds a wedding ceremony in the future, Kuroko's his best man. With that thought cemented in his brain, Kagami tries to tackle this issue part by part.

First, he'll start from the beginning.

"So, uh." Kagami intelligently starts his conversation (because he refuses to admit that Aomine's stupidity is contagious). "Okay. What brought this on?"

"Kagami-kun, you know Akashi-san, am I right?" Kuroko replies with another question of his own.

And with that name, Kagami knows nothing good will come up. He still pins the blame on Kise for bringing him to Akashi for his discounted date suit. "… yeah, that rich freak. What's up?"

Kuroko manages to keep a straight face even when he says, "Kise-kun thinks I might be gay for Akashi-san. I think he's wrong."

Kagami's jaw unhinges automatically. "What the actual fuck." And that, he blames Aomine entirely for his crass mouth. That cop's bad habits are starting to rub off on him. "Get out of here: Kise said you're gay for Akashi? The hell is up with that? Don't listen to that idiot, he's almost always wrong!"

"But what if Kise-kun isn't wrong this time?" Kuroko presses on, raising his brows. He doesn't sound desperate for answers but Kagami knows he's always good at faking it, so this must've bugged Kuroko so much until he's losing sleep over it. Those eye bags can definitely rival Aomine's late night shifts. "I want to know what Kagami-kun thinks about it."

"What, you think other gays can pick up potential gaydars in the area?" he jokes in an effort to lighten the mood. But when Kuroko doesn't even chuckle at it, he knows he's got to switch modes. Clearing his throat, he motions for Kuroko to sit and the other does, pulling up a rolling chair from behind. "Okay, let's just try to assume Kise's idiotic point of view. Why do you think that he thinks you're gay?"

"Because I know he has feelings for me," Kuroko says, undaunted. "He's probably trying to get me to like him in some way if I'm gay."

Kagami winces. "Harsh. But I totally agree with you." At Kuroko's knowing shrug, he scratches his cheek. "All right, even though it might be true, let's try not looking that way. Kise's pretty weird, but when it comes to romance, he's the perfect man for solutions. Dunno why he's so good in romance, but eh, probably has something to do with him spending loads of time with girls."

"So… what's your point, Kagami-kun?"

Holding up a hand to get his slightly vexed partner to settle down, Kagami grunts. "Oi, don't glare at me like that. I'm just acknowledging Kise's ability and we're trying to get into his mind when he said that stuff. If he thinks you're gay for Akashi, you might be gay. You ever thought about it?"

A pregnant pause.

Kagami stares harder. "Well?"

"I've… never thought about it," Kuroko finally admits, soft like he's afraid he'll break something if he goes a pitch higher. "At first, it was about basketball and winning Winter Cup. And then it's about getting into a university. After that, there's work."

Kagami hums in agreement at the timeline; he knows because he's been there with Kuroko through all the events. So he makes a noncommittal noise for Kuroko to continue.

"I've never thought of falling in love or," he grimaces, "thought about my sexuality like how Kise-san did. I supposed I'll cross that bridge when it comes. Maybe I'll just marry someone my parents agree on, and that's it. Like any other family, we'll have children. I'll get old. I'll die in the hospital. It's nothing interesting."

"Okay…" They're getting somewhere, Kagami thinks, trying not to dwell on Kuroko's morbid words. He exhales softly. "So, meeting Akashi changed something in you? Why, all of a sudden? He made some moves on you?"

"Of course not, Kagami-kun," Kuroko briskly replies, shaking his head. He throws a glance out of the dusty window, gazing at the mellow sunlight streaming through the cotton plaid curtains. It's only after a few seconds he starts again like a toy car. "At first, I couldn't understand Kise-kun's love for popularity and fame, and I had some prejudice against fashion designers and rich people because they usually come off as haughty. But Akashi-san is different."

Different? That's something new. The Kuroko he knows usually doesn't like anything 'different', like how he refused to get milkshakes from other stores than Maji Burger even when there's no Maji outlet for miles around. Scratching his nape, Kagami mulls over his words, picks out the ones that hurt the least, and rearranges them into a proper sentence. "So… you only liked him because he's different from your stereotypes?"

Oh, he must've hit the nail right on the head when Kuroko's hands twist into little balls on his thighs. Kagami sincerely hopes it isn't one of those Ignite Passes—or upgraded into Ignite Punches over the years, but he scuttles back for safety just in case. Kuroko's face is tight with emotion, lowered eyes, tensed back, and a vein protrudes from his wrist. Whatever it is that he's dealing with, Kagami's sure it's something heavy.

"No, that would be shallow of me." Kuroko's hands reflexively clench and unclench, and Kagami's not sure what that signifies. "I don't know if it's just passing interest, but Akashi-san is memorable. We barely interacted and I've only met him twice, but he stays inside my mind. I would like to resume my life as normal, but I don't think it's possible after meeting him. And I'll meet him again, soon enough, because he has to remake my suit before passing it to me." He swallows, taking a breather. "I'd like to sort this out before that happens."

Well, after that lengthy clarification, it's simple enough for anyone to come to a conclusion about Kuroko's problem. Kagami's not the smartest of all people, that's Midorima's job as a doctor, but he's got this under his belt. And he'd be damned if he lets his buddy down.

Leaning forward on his seat, Kagami prods Kuroko's forehead with his finger and grins widely.

"You're not gay, Kuroko. You're just starting to fall in love."

* * *

><p>In love, he says.<p>

Kuroko is in love.

Kuroko Tetsuya is in _love_?

That was fast.

* * *

><p>He doesn't hear from Akashi again until Wednesday peeps from beyond the blinds in Kuroko's room.<p>

**Date:** 9/7/2014  
><strong>Time:<strong> 12:39 a.m.  
><strong>Sender:<strong> 0118481414  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Meeting  
><strong>Message:<strong>  
><em>Good evening, Kuroko.<br>Your suit is ready to be tried on again.  
><em>_I've altered a few spots that may have caused you some discomfort during your initial fitting.  
>Will you be free tomorrow after dinner?<em>

All tangled up in quilted sheets and cotton bolsters, Kuroko stares blankly at the screen.

Should he reply? About a week ago, it costed him some precious sleeping time and he's not sure if he'd like that mini heart attack to happen again. But if he doesn't, is it considered impolite of him to do so? Kuroko rolls over on his bed, clutching his phone, and tries to come up with excuses. What about feigning sleep then? Surely people with a normal working shift like Kuroko would be fast asleep at this hour. Only the abnormal ones like Akashi would remain active, diligently carrying out their tasks until the wee hours of morning.

And only Akashi would text him at inappropriate hours just because he's still awake.

With another pointed stare, Kuroko puts away his phone on the bedside table.

Akashi will have to wait, just like any other human beings who text him at ungodly hours of the day.

* * *

><p>Like a flowing river, today's a slow day.<p>

After the diagnosis by the resident love doctor of Himawari Kindergarten, Kuroko spends his time doing more menial chores than possible. It's not his job, but he mops the hardwood floor with disinfectant, tapes new drawings on the empty walls, sings along with the children during their music class, and participates in their rehearsal of the play _Sleeping Beauty_ (with him as prince charming, pecking a flustered princess on her cheek). Kagami merely stands in the hallway, eyeing him from a distance, and every now and then, Kuroko catches him looking away with a deep sigh.

But Kagami doesn't approach him, nor does he comment anything else about their previous discussion.

And for that, Kuroko's thankful.

Some time off from indulging with thoughts of Akashi is good, he thinks. The weight of his cellphone sitting inside the apron's pocket reminds him that he still hasn't responded to the man's message. _Later, later, later_, Kuroko tells himself every few minutes. But the clock marches from 1:24 p.m., 3:54 p.m., and finally stops at 6:45 p.m., where Kuroko slowly rips apart some flimsy plastic to get fresh batteries for replacement.

After all the children have been evacuated from the grounds, the lights are switched off and one last security check is done before the day ends properly. Kagami unchains his bicycle and offers Kuroko a ride home, but he's met with declination from the slighter male. With a shrug and a mumbled, "Okay then, see you tomorrow," Kagami goes on his merry way and leaves Kuroko in the dust.

Not that he minds.

The twilight settles in between the clouds like fine dust, specking the horizon with elusive violets and sharp corals. Kuroko follows the road home light-footed, crosses the road on proper monochrome stripes, buys himself some quick dinner from a convenience store, and tucks his hands inside the pockets of his jacket. The train isn't as stuffy as usual today, probably because he took his own sweet time getting there, so lesser people have gathered. He gives his seat to an elderly lady who thanks him with a piece of sweet and smiles at the flashy scarf wrapped around her saggy neck.

It's somewhat unfashionable—

Kuroko stops himself there; he doesn't want to think anymore about what comes after fashion.

He gets off at his station, squeezes past the later crowds, taps his card on the metal barriers, and jogs home. The streets are clearer now, it's past 7:14 p.m., and the sun dips low beyond the buildings. The aftermath of colours wash over the large trees planted on the walkways and he eyes the medley of hues, seeing deep greens and blurry red in the distance—

—blurry red that settles against a fine sports car.

Kuroko almost stops in his tracks.

The crimson smear picks him out from his spot from the way he straightens up all of a sudden. A pair of aviators sits on his tousled hair, and that's the first time Kuroko's seen Akashi looking like a mess. A hot mess. What with him simply dressed in an obviously tailored dress shirt (Kuroko's not surprised at all if Akashi makes his own clothes) with its first few buttons popped open and casual pants, Kuroko wonders how some people actually manage to look good when they're obviously not in the right state to do so.

"Kuroko, come here," he calls out from the distance, and that's an imperial summoning if Kuroko ever lived in ancient China.

Not wanting to test his patience, Kuroko crosses the few cracked pavements to get to Akashi's side. He doesn't even get a chance to steels his nerves at their uncoordinated meeting as he says, "Good evening, Akashi-san, nice to see you again."

"It's pleasant to see you again as well," Akashi replies, civil. A mere fraction of second is spent on him inspecting the plastic bag Kuroko's holding, and his brows furrow at the sight. "That's some late dinner you're having."

"Yes." Kuroko lifts the bag in response, the sound of crunching plastic acting as their background music. Why are they talking about dinner like they're friends again? He doesn't know. "I don't feel like cooking today, so I got myself something." Trying to return Akashi's act of courtesy, Kuroko remembers to ask: "Has Akashi-san eaten his dinner?"

"Not yet, unfortunately," is his curt answer. Akashi's long fingers reach out to pluck his sunglasses from his nest of hair, folding it, and he keeps it hanging from the breast pocket. He then casts Kuroko a long, purposeful look. "You didn't reply my message, so I assumed that you got off from work latest by seven. Thought of having my dinner at 7.30 if you didn't return by then."

Ouch.

He's definitely at fault for this one. Better come clean instead of mucking around with excuses. Mustering an apologetic bow, Kuroko sighs, hoping that it sounds like he's full of regret. "I'm sorry, Akashi-san, I didn't mean to. I kept putting it off at work today."

"That's fine." Akashi brushes off his apology with a bat of his eyelashes, low and lingering. The hypnotic movement almost mesmerises Kuroko, who stares harder than he should have, but Akashi's unperturbed. "I didn't bring your suit with me today since I was thinking of bringing you back to my apartment so that I can make further adjustments there, if needed. But since both you and I haven't had dinner, perhaps it's best for us to dine first at my place."

Hushed silence.

Kuroko blinks.

Did he hear that correctly?

"Dinner?"

"Yes, dinner," Akashi replies, succinct. His lips curve with every provocative enunciation, and the words almost fade to a blur at the back of Kuroko's head. "Of course, after we're done, I'll take full responsibility to send you home."

* * *

><p>So, by right, he should've declined Akashi's proposal. The stars aren't in the right position, the constellations are conspiring against him, the tea stem didn't float in his cup this morning, the clocks with all the 4's are haunting him, the lucky item in Oha Asa for Aquarius today is a fork and he didn't bring it—whatever it is, anything's a good excuse to get away from Akashi. But no, he didn't. Luck works in mysterious ways and Kuroko finds himself sitting in Akashi's living room again, nursing a glass of fruit juice as he hears Akashi puttering around in his kitchen.<p>

Something about this should ring alarm bells inside his head.

Hopefully, it won't turn out into a bad horror-romance movie where Kuroko's unknowingly seduced by the sociopath so that dinner is the prologue to something else more… horrifying. He hopes he's not the ingredient for tonight's dinner, or he'll be made into a tragic mannequin suited to Akashi's liking. Definitely not. Taking a steady swig of the juice, letting the burst of tangy lime sting his tongue, Kuroko puts the raspberry-coloured drink onto the provided filigreed coaster and mentally prods his sanity.

To be fair, he does find Akashi attractive. That, Kuroko is willing to admit.

It's like how boys look at girls—unconventionally, how girls look at boys, how boys look at boys, how girls look at girls, how someone looks at_anyone_ and thinks, _'Hey, that person looks really good, I like the haircut, I like the style, I like the bag.'_ Or so he tries to justify his view. He's seen girls in billowy skirts and sun-kissed thighs and learned how to appreciate the fine aesthetics of their delicately perfumed wrists and neck, and Momoi's shopping trips often taught him how hard it takes for girls to achieve that perfection they seek with their colour coordination and makeup.

But Akashi, Akashi's not like other girls Kuroko's seen before.

He's not even a female to begin with.

From the small gap between the hallway and the doorsill, Kuroko catches flickering glimpses of Akashi flitting back and forth from the counter to the small corner by the sink. His dress sleeves are unbuttoned, rolled up as far as they could go on those leanly muscled arms, and he's pushed his hair back to avoid any mishaps. Kuroko knows what he's doing is considered as blatantly ogling someone, but how could he not when the object of his insomnia provides a dastardly good look of his back muscles when he turns to focus on his work?

Sighing louder than he intended to, Kuroko palms his forehead and wills himself not to get too deep into this—whatever _this_ is.

He still hasn't decided on what to do with his growing interest, or unexpected bisexuality (or Akashisexuality), and has been counting on the days of their separation to give it a sound thinking. But Akashi just had to show up out of nowhere, luring Kuroko to his abode with promises of dinner and a fitting session, and it's all just hook, line and sinker right there and then. Something like this is mildly inconveniencing, like some mystical force from the above that's trying to sew their fates together with a needle and a nylon thread, and—

"That was quite a loud sigh."

Kuroko's head jerks up faster than a murderer snapping his victim's neck. Akashi's already settled into a seat opposite of him with his own glass of juice, misty blue with splashes of pink, and he sips the drink slowly before joining his glass with Kuroko's on the table. A faint sizzling sound and an aroma of spices followed him from the kitchen, enveloping the room with a savoury smell. Something's probably cooking in there.

"I take it work has been taxing on you?" Akashi presses on, crimson eyes searching for something on Kuroko's face. "I wasn't aware that taking care of children can be tiring. Your eye bags are rather impressive."

Kuroko finds his mouth a bit dry at his question. Taking his glass, he soothes his throat with a few sips and tries not to mind the way Akashi's lashes lower as he follows the way Kuroko's throat bobs with every gulp. Once sufficiently prepared to answer the man's question, he puts away his drink again. "Yes, the children at the kindergarten can be a bit rowdy and we don't exactly have enough—" _then_ Kuroko catches his words properly, which leads him to stare at Akashi. "Um, I'm sorry, how did you know I work at a kindergarten?"

Like it's an everyday thing, Akashi shrugs and meets Kuroko's eyes point blank. He doesn't even try to be discreet about the smile on his face. "You forgot that we both share a mutual friend. Kise is obsessed with talking about you. Of course I know plenty more, and not just your work, Kuroko."

That blond needs to be shot in his crotch, Kuroko thinks, but he doesn't share that thought in case Akashi acts on it. He'd rather not see a limp, bloodied, scissored penis wrapped in a ribbon outside his apartment door, thank you very much. "I see… that's a bit. Well. That's Kise-kun."

"It's terrifying how much I know about you before I even met you," Akashi simply agrees, inserting his two cents and perfectly conveying what Kuroko's trying to say. He savours his drink between the pause, licks the excess liquid from his mouth, and Kuroko stares at the spit-shiny sheen of his lips. "I was well aware of your existence ever since I first met Kise three and a half years back. You're his favourite subject, though, your petty arguments with him are amusing. He doesn't seem to take kindly to being ignored while chatting with you, and you do it all the time."

"Oh. Yes."

Well, what else is he supposed to say? Kuroko feels like his intelligence has been reduced to Aomine's level with this sort of knowledge smacked on his face none too kindly. If his work life has been ratted out to Akashi, then twenty-two years of Kuroko's life can easily be summarised within three and a half years if Kise talks about him daily. And that's disturbing.

Akashi, on the other hand, looks as though his beleaguering Kuroko doesn't affect him in any way. He's probably grown immune to it, just like how everyone's grown immune to Kise's antics. Apathetic, that's how he is. Though he doesn't quite hide the way his tone picks up when he asks, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're not dating Kise, are you?"

"No—of course not." Kuroko shakes his head, unwilling to entertain the horrific thought. Where in the world did that come from anyway? Something about Akashi's posture probes his curiosity; he's leaning forward, chin resting on his palm, and Kuroko doesn't want to misinterpret it but that's definitely a sign of interest. Interest in what, exactly? "Kise-kun and I were merely in the same basketball team in Teiko and we kept in contact until now. I don't think I like Kise-kun in that kind of sense."

"Hm." Akashi nods, like something's confirmed in his head. "Interesting."

Trying not to be discouraged at his odd mannerism, Kuroko breaks off their eye contact and looks at the condensation beading on the glass. "If you don't mind my asking, what about you, Akashi-san?"

"What do you want to know, Kuroko?"

Being asked frankly is a bit embarrassing because it feels like he's a nosy brat, but it's unfair that Akashi knows a lot about him when Kuroko's the one who went through all the hassle of googling him up. "… maybe something about your family then? Or about yourself. I'm not sure."

"Considering that I know you grew up as an only child in a family of three, consisting from your recently deceased grandmother, your father and your mother, it's a fair trade." Akashi says, coming to mutually unspoken compromise. "Very well then, I'll indulge you while waiting for dinner to cook."

Kuroko blinks. Kise really needs to be shot in the crotch.

"I grew up as an only child as well," he goes on, deadpan. "My mother passed away when I was young and my butler took care of me as my late father was incompetent enough to do so. My family is a meika, you see, and we have long relations with certain imperial ties. It used to be that my father took care of our family business, but after his untimely death, I took over. Though," he adds as an afterthought, palming his cheek, "it's currently spearheaded by someone I appointed as I've no interest in controlling the company personally."

"That's…" shocking, is what Kuroko wants to say, but come to think of it, it's not shocking at all. He somewhat anticipated a fairytale-like storyline like this, coming from a resolute figure like Akashi, but he didn't expect it to be pegged down to a tee. "… _nice._" For a lack of better word, that's a good replacement.

It's then Akashi bares him a smile full of white teeth. Charming, if not for the animalistic feel to it. "Is it?"

"It means you're well off from the start, so you don't have to worry much about anything," Kuroko adds, tilting his head subtly. "Do you mind if I ask another question, Akashi-san?"

"Not at all," he hums. "Ask away, Kuroko."

"What made you venture into fashion?"

But Akashi doesn't answer his question. He simply unfolds his posture and chooses to get up from his seat instead.

What shocks Kuroko is that Akashi goes around the table acting as a safety railing between the two of them and tramples over Kuroko's comfort zone again when he drops into a seat right beside him. Kuroko's acutely aware of how his heart seizes up, his spine's straining, this is bordering on awkward, but Akashi bends over to inspect the coffee table's drawer and draws out a tangle of brightly chiming strings. Like he's not responsible for Kuroko's discomfort, he sorts out the ends from the starts, and Kuroko's left staring at the mess.

Or rather, in about thirty seconds full of rustling and nitpicking, it isn't a mess anymore.

Akashi holds up a cobweb of crystal necklace that falls like a chandelier between his hands, its ocean blue beads harmoniously playing with aquamarines and mulberries. The bijoux piece forms an intricate pattern that reminds Kuroko of his grandmother's scalloped curtains, and it's everything that says what Akashi is: thoroughly fastidious.

"There is something satisfying when you get to control the outcome of your actions," Akashi says as a prelude to insanity, and carefully lays the necklace over Kuroko's lap. It drips in places where there are gaps and Kuroko fights to keep it balanced, but Akashi's warm hands secures them on his thighs. He looks up, languid, but doesn't remove his hold. "To design any form of clothing, you need to give it plenty of thinking. Things that are not attached properly will fall. Things that are not designed properly will not win awards. Things that are not measured properly will not fit. With each different customer I receive, I meet varying levels of challenges according to their demands, their size, their preferences, their purpose. It satisfies me in ways a human can't."

The heat invades him from two separate directions on his thighs and Kuroko breathes shallowly at the contact. "Is that… so?"

They exchange a long silence punctuated by the little sounds from the kitchen, full of meaningful contact from Akashi and returned with hesitation by Kuroko. Neither of them moved for a while. The warmth from his hands feel like scorching branding irons, trying to mark him with his words.

It takes a moment for Akashi to pull away, withdrawing the necklace along with him, and he lifts his handiwork between them to obscure half of his face like a gossamer veil. Kuroko could still see the supple curve of his lips when he finally answers, "Yes, it is so," and that's the end game.

Kuroko reaches over, pulls Akashi's hand to lower the frail barrier, and presses his lips against the other. He shouldn't be kissing people when he's not even sure of his standing as a person, but the queasy urge in his loins says yes, _yes_, this is what he wants, this is what he needs. Kuroko's never kissed anyone before, save for his family's cheek before he goes for long travels with Kagami, and he's expected it to be messy, clumsy, and full of inexperience but Akashi drops the necklace and now one hand's pushing him down onto the couch, turning it into a deeper, slicker heat of perfected practice.

At least one of them knows what's going on to take charge.

Their teeth click as Akashi presses his weight against Kuroko and their tongues rub against one another, running over the molars only to meet again. Akashi tastes of blended blueberries and cherries from his drink, and Kuroko readily laps it up from his mouth, only to get the favour returned hungrily. One hand is fisted inside his hair, tugging insistently, and they part with a gasp before Kuroko takes the initiative this time to dip in again for another kiss, letting all regrets seep through his fingertips as he runs his palms over the sharp dips of Akashi's back.

He doesn't need to see to know that the muscles flex when he smoothens his hands over the shirt, hears the low appreciative purr from Akashi's throat, and _feels_ the smile tugging the corner of his lips.

"Akashi-san," Kuroko exhales breathlessly, nudging their noses together, and he catches Akashi's bottom lip between his teeth to give it a small bite. He gets a lewd look burning in the man's eyes at the action, vengeful, and groans when Akashi dives to nip his collarbones as his hand travels southward. It's so easy to lose control when it feels so electrifying, everything's engulfing him faster than his conscience can catch up, and Kuroko willingly kills his thoughts to drown in his ecstasy.

"You should be careful of what you ask for, Kuroko," Akashi warns, littering chaste kisses over the column Kuroko's neck before latching onto a pale strip of flesh, greedily sucking to leave a reddening bruise. He makes it a point to bite wherever's reachable, nip when Kuroko's mewling and clawing down his back, and licks his earlobe, leaving a wet squelch behind like an emphasis to what he said.

Kuroko arches wantonly under the assault, tipping his head back to offer more with a moan, and squeezes his eyes shut when Akashi's hand briefly cups his growing erection. He thinks he's imagining it between the rapid thrum of blood rushing to his ears and how he's half-hard just from their heated exchange, but Akashi murmurs something against his cheek before he withdraws suddenly, sitting up and pinning Kuroko down with a hand on his chest.

The sudden loss of warmth has him blearily opening his eyes again, head so heavy with the pounding pleasure overtaking his mind, and Akashi's opaque silhouette peers at him from above. Kuroko doesn't know what's up—just don't _stop_, but the redhead obviously has other plans in store. He reaches behind him in one sinuous movement, fishing something nestled between Kuroko's calves and cushions, and returns to finish his job once he finds it. Kuroko shouldn't be acting like a spoiled child, really, but it's _hard_ (no pun intended) when Akashi's ignoring him like this.

But Akashi's vaguely unruffled, steadily ignoring him and just breathing hard through his nose as his fingers deftly popped the buttons on Kuroko's shirt. Kuroko jumps when Akashi drops a cold chain on his exposed chest, leaning forward to adjust the tricky necklace as he sees fit, and fastens the clasp somewhere Kuroko's unable to register amidst the flood of conflicting sensations. Something about this feels really weird, like it's not supposed to be happening in the middle of a Hollywood make out session, but his virgin head can't quite place a hand on it.

It's only then Akashi allows himself a fraction of a cocky smile with half-lidded eyes, looking pleased with something.

"I knew it you'd look good like this, Kuroko."

Kuroko doesn't know what that's supposed to mean, but he doesn't complain when Akashi swoops downwards to reward him with another kiss again. Cryptic words be darned, right now they have something else ongoing, so enigmatic puzzles will just have to be solved another time.

Their drinks are left untouched, and their dinner, burnt.

* * *

><p><strong>next time on: OH MY JULIET!<strong>  
><em>But Akashi's in a world of his own, shucking the cotton shirt from Kuroko's body, throwing it on one of the many chairs littered inside his work room and stepping back with a quiet smile on his face. His fingers dust off imaginary freckles over the shoulders, a warm flare that goes straight to Kuroko's tummy, and continues its frisk downwards. He stops for a moment, momentary haze of ideas maybe parading in his head, and quite suddenly grabs both sides of Kuroko's body to graze his thumbs against the bony arc of his ribcage.<em>


	3. Animals

**A/N: **_i have been a very bad egg to write this stuff. bless me with holy water bc i have gone to the land that i cannot return. this chapter contains crossdressing, masturbation, and mirror sex. hit back if it isn't your sort of thing. :D hope it's enjoyable, as always, thank you everyone for your reviews! _

* * *

><p>Contrary to popular belief, Kuroko hasn't lost his virginity yet.<p>

Their filthy liaison ended with a burning smell from the kitchen and Akashi barely evades making a personal call to Kagami for expert fire extinguishing. Instead of spending time getting on his hands and knees and getting rug burns, Kuroko gets on his hands and knees to scrub the kitchen cabinets as Akashi chucks his frying pan and melted utensils into the garbage chute. It isn't quite the first romance that Kuroko expected from years of reading novels and watching Momoi's movies, of candlelight dinners and silk bedsheets, but at the end of the night when Akashi thanks him for his service and pecks him on the corner of his lips, Kuroko thinks it's worth it.

But they're still not a mutually exclusive couple.

Realistically speaking, there's no way they'd be together after meeting each other less than five times and spending even lesser hours together. Does Akashi even like him in that way? He doesn't know. But somehow, Kuroko's strangely comforted by the thought that he's fine with having kissed another man like his life depended on sucking the oxygen out of him, like Akashi's the coconut log in the ocean that he has to cling on in order to survive. Is this what love is supposed to feel like? Definitely not the conventional sort, if anything.

Is it a modern sort of fling then?

Kuroko makes a face at that and nearly misses marking a huge X over a question as he sits in the vacant staff room, grading 4B's surprise test.

Calling it a fling is cheap, makes him seem whorish, and Kise would cry buckets of tears at the thought of 'his' innocent Kuroko turning into a succubus. It is, very certainly, an experiment on Kuroko's newfound sexuality, and Kuroko's more than comfortable to say that he doesn't mind doing it again with Akashi sometime later in the future. Maybe that night flicked some switch in him, lets him shed the skin of a puerile virgin and metamorphose into a midnight porn star.

At noon, when Kuroko pulls the sun-dried pastel-coloured comforters as part of their schedule to maintain the kindergarten's weekly hygiene on the children's belongings, his apron vibrates with a single beep. He withdraws his phone under the hanging lines and could proudly say that this time, he is no longer shaken by the fact that Akashi's texting him again.

(actually, he quite likes the notion of Akashi taking short breaks squeezed between needlepoint deadlines just to talk with him, even if it's just about the suit)

**Date:** 10/7/2014  
><strong>Time:<strong> 12:44 p.m.  
><strong>Sender:<strong> 0118481414  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Dinner  
><strong>Message:<strong>  
><em>Good afternoon, Kuroko.<br>Seeing that yesterday was a disaster, will you join me in restarting our dinner plans tonight?  
><em>_I will pick you up at 7:30._

It takes him significantly less time to punch in _good evening, akashi-san, dinner sounds good, i'll look forward to it_ than he remembers the aftermath of him texting the redhead a week ago. He can only hope he doesn't sound too eager when he sends the reply, and closes the messaging application.

Like a cliched novel, as the pigeons coo and the trees rustle with the afternoon breeze, Kuroko finally allows himself to smile when he saves 0118481414 under Akashi Seijuro and keeps his phone once more.

* * *

><p>"Have you considered wearing a dress before?"<p>

There should be a rule against Akashi when it comes to talking about work at dinner.

"No?"

By all means, the brief ghost of disappointment crossing his crimson eyes shouldn't look like the mysterious Flying Dutchman unfurling from the mist. "I see. With your size, I don't see why you should restrict yourself from wearing them."

Kuroko tries again, raising his brows. "That's Kise-kun's job as a model." The stringed orchestra music softly thrumming in the background mocks him with a crescendo, like it's an irony of sorts from a cinematic movie in late fifties. "I'm not a female."

"Neither am I, but you held no reservations in kissing me yesterday." Akashi shrugs, proving a point Kuroko sorely agrees with. His nimble hands make quick work of the sautéed salmon oozing butter sauce with sharpened silver cutleries, popping a piece into his mouth to chew and swallow. "The labels they put on clothes don't mean anything to me. As someone involved in the world of fashion, I believe that if it looks good on you, then it is meant to be on you." Conspiratorially, he looks at Kuroko from underneath shaggy bangs. "You'll look good in one."

This makes Kuroko pause in his journey to sample poached chicken artistically arranged in a flat plate as he stares at his dinner date, mate—whatever Akashi is. The daub of red sitting across the table eyes him levelly in return.

"Akashi-san seems to have some interest in making me wear female clothing," Kuroko comments apathetically, or as apathetically as he could. The thought should be distressing because a) coming to terms with his sexuality wasn't an easy feat to be done in a few days, and b) now his potential love interest wants to treat him like a dress-up doll after all that trouble? "Has it been your motive all along?"

"I spent three years and a half looking at your pictures from Kise's phone, it's bound to give me some inspirations for some of my designs." Akashi smiles, a bit too broad for Kuroko's liking. "I won't deny I do want to put you in some of the dresses and accessories I've made. Calling it a motive is a bit cruel; I'd prefer to call you my muse instead."

Charming. Flattery at its finest. But if Akashi thinks that'll woo him over, he's definitely wrong.

Only milkshake does that.

"A dress isn't practical for my work," Kuroko says abjectly, slicing through his chicken and imagining it's Akashi's dream dress instead. "Besides, I grew up relatively normal, Akashi-san. I don't dream of wearing dresses at all."

Unsurprisingly, Akashi isn't fazed with his declaration. He's dropped his cutleries in favour of cradling his cheek, perceptive eyes just picking apart Kuroko's stand like a stray thread. "Yes, I'm aware of that. You're a normal man leading a normal life. That is, until I came along." He tips his head, mercurial, the movement almost like a drunken sag if not for the fact they're not having any alcoholic drinks. "I must've caused some problem in your life."

The musical number playing in the background switches tracks to something a bit more upbeat, like a swing jazz originating from the gypsy caravans. Kuroko bleakly wonders if his life is turning more comedic than he think it is.

"Akashi-san is giving too much credit to himself." He's cut his chicken a bit too deeply now until the irritating grate of steel against porcelain tears through the room's classical atmosphere, which only serves to make Akashi chuckle as he resumes eating. "But yes, you're right," Kuroko agrees with a sigh, knowing that Akashi's obviously taking in everything he's doing now as a sign of blatant denial. "Kise-kun must've told you that."

"Kise's unsuccessful attempts in wooing you told me plenty, even if he hadn't said a word," he agrees, the corner of his lips quirking in amusement. Akashi's almost done wiping his plate clean from food with swift precision like dinner isn't meant to be enjoyed. That or he's used to dining fast so that he'll save more time to be spent on his work instead. Knowing Akashi, it's probably the latter. "I have to admit, meeting you in person has been an interesting experience. Something like a picture finally given a spirit and a voice."

Kuroko's in the middle of chewing his chicken, savouring the tart snap in his mouth from the lemon rinds, when he abruptly swallows. At the very least, he didn't choke. Washing his throat with the cold juice Akashi provided, Kuroko fixes a solemn stare at the man. "I'm not sure what you're trying to imply, Akashi-san." And no, he isn't faking it. "You're being vague."

"Would you prefer if I come clean then?"

No, but— "Yes," comes from his lips, which Akashi regards with a slight smile.

"As I said, I'm interested to have you wear some of my collections," he says, upfront. Akashi's absently rolling a cherry tomato on his plate with his fork, but his rapt attention is solely devoted on how fascinating Kuroko's expressions rapidly changes like a TV channel. "During those few years, I've been experimenting with different creations to vary my designs. When Kise introduced you, I realise you fit the change I'm about to create. In fact, my recent collection on spring managed to surprise the critiques."

Spring has got him thinking of flowers peering from earth's crust and weeds striking a revolution in gardens worldwide. A sudden flashback of Kuroko's stalking on the internet led him to Vogue's slew of praises and he stares at Akashi blankly. He shouldn't be asking, really, but he's betrayed by his own curiosity.

"Why?"

"Other designer lines such as Dolce & Gabbana and Zuhair Murad focused on more earthy colours, browns and blacks this year," Akashi explains, a long finger tracing out the letters in the air languidly. "But I chose not to look at the earth for inspiration. I looked towards the sky."

"The sky?" Kuroko echoes, eyebrows raised. Sky isn't the generic sort of thing he expected. "Why?"

Akashi laughs, low, looking at him in disbelief. He stops rolling the cherry tomato and it lies, squished and full of holes. "I looked towards _you_, Kuroko."

Oh.

_Oh._ "… me?" Don't get him wrong, the notion that Akashi's using him to draw inspirations is a big honour, especially when the collection received a big hit, but. "May I ask why, Akashi-san?"

"Of course, I'm glad you asked. Spring isn't only focused on earth and what it brings," says Akashi quietly, resting his chin on elegantly folded fingers. "People often forget the sky it brings along with the season and how it compliments the earth as a background, no matter what colour the flowers are. You are a man, slightly masculine, but at the same time, you are a contradiction; delicate because of your stature and colour. Bold with baby blue, if I might say."

Kuroko can't quite say he's surprised at Akashi's added reaffirmation, but the imaginary chunk lodged in his throat says otherwise. Inside Akashi's mind might as well be a beautiful disaster of colours trying to orchestrate harmony with one another, fogged up by scraggly lines of his unfinished sketches lying around. He wonders how many designs were thrown off in Akashi's process of trying to capture his shadowy essence, countless of nights spent looking at colour boards full with blue, blue, and only blue.

Gradually losing interest in his dinner, Kuroko takes his drink instead. In between sips, he casts small glances to Akashi and says, "I hope you don't have my pictures inside your phone." Another sip. "Or… your tablet."

"Well, I do need to have my muse with me all the time, don't you think?" he comments nonchalantly, smiling tight-lipped. Kuroko only chokes on his drink at that. "Now hurry up, finish your dinner. We still have a fitting session to finish, Kuroko."

* * *

><p>It's a jarring experience to think that someone else knows him from more than three years back, someone's been using him for inspiration, someone's been mapping knots of his muscles—someone's cutting him out from a tracing paper to paste on a pattern. Akashi pretends, or maybe not, that he's perfectly at ease with exploiting Kuroko for his work all through those years. Okay, maybe not <em>exploiting<em>, but Kuroko can't seem to conjure another word out of thin air—not when Akashi's casually divesting him of his shirt, making quick work of his buttons.

"Um."

Sex is the last thing on Kuroko's mind, but it's the first on Kuroko's tongue. This isn't quite the start of their 'relationship' that Kuroko's readying himself for, is it?

But Akashi's in a world of his own, shucking the cotton shirt from Kuroko's body, throwing it on one of the many chairs littered inside his work room and stepping back with a quiet smile on his face. His fingers dust off imaginary freckles over the shoulders, a warm flare that goes straight to Kuroko's tummy, and continues its frisk downwards. He stops for a moment, momentary haze of ideas maybe parading in his head, and quite suddenly grabs both sides of Kuroko's body to graze his thumbs against the bony arc of his ribcage.

"You have such pale skin, Kuroko," Akashi says. Is that a trace of approval in his voice? "You'll look good in all colours… Will you wear something red next time?"

"Red like you?" asks Kuroko.

A laugh. Akashi's only answer is letting his thumbs slide lower to hook into Kuroko's belt loops, pulling them both closer. He peers downwards, almost smug for someone who's only a few centimetres taller than Kuroko, and boldly reaches back to slide his bare palm against the bony ridges of Kuroko's protruding spine. Akashi starts from the neck, thumb and forefinger pressing into his nape, casually dragging downwards to learn Kuroko's body, blunt fingernails lightly scratching his skin. He firmly settles on the small of Kuroko's back.

Akashi obviously doesn't miss how Kuroko openly shivers under his invading touch. Maybe it's his intention from the start.

"Any red, trust me," Akashi finally says, fingertips testing the boundaries hiding underneath Kuroko's waistband. They dip, curious, and then teasingly pull away when Kuroko rests his forehead against Akashi's shoulder. Repeat and rinse, with each time his fingers venturing a little bit further than before. "Champaign red, maroon red, rose red, scarlet." He leans downward, lips hovering closely, breath warm. "_Everything_, Kuroko."

Modern seduction is a very dangerous thing, Kuroko realizes, as he reaches up to wrap his arms over Akashi's shoulder, pulling him down. Their lips barely touch. It's a game to see who will fall to temptation first, and from the looks of it, Akashi is convinced he will emerge triumphant.

And Kuroko is determined to wipe that devilish smile away from his face.

"But I don't make it a habit to wear red," he whispers against Akashi's lips, ignoring how the other man has started toying with Kuroko's back, pinching, kneading, scratching. "And you can't convince me, Akashi-san."

The hands on his back abruptly cupped his ass at the answer and Kuroko jolts from the tight grip, fumbling for purchase. It's within Akashi's calculation: he'd issue a dare just to rile Kuroko up the wall, and now Kuroko's the one wrapping his legs around Akashi's waist as he clings onto the man carrying him across the room.

"It's a challenge I'm willing to accept, Kuroko."

* * *

><p>—this not the challenge Kuroko's willing to see Akashi execute.<p>

"I need to tighten this corset. Hold your breath."

Not at all.

"That hurts a little, Akashi-san. Please do it gently."

"Ah, my bad. Sorry, Kuroko." A brief kiss on his nape to placate the snug tension squeezed around his waist like a manmade anaconda. "It's almost done, just hold on."

By right, Kuroko should be questioning why he allowed himself to be lured into empty promises of a fitting session with Akashi. Standing in front of a wall-mounted full length mirror, he sees Akashi working fastidiously behind him, lacing the satin ribbons of the corset Kuroko wears. He's bare underneath it all, not even the modesty of his boxers given to him.

If Kise sees this, it'll be the end of him, Kuroko thinks.

"You're sweating," Akashi comments conversationally, but his hands don't let up from his job. "Do you want me to lower the temperature?"

The tight corset grazes against his nipples uncomfortably. Kuroko squirms. He braces his arms on both sides of the mirror and shakes his head, not trusting his voice. Flashbacks of their first meeting blearily pass through his mind, of wandering tapes and hushed voices. Akashi's done a good job in persuading him to try this on instead of his suit.

"Just a bit more, Kuroko," Akashi says again. "Just a bit more, hold on."

Eagerness carefully tailored out of his voice, he sounds relatively normal, but it shows.

It _shows_ with his roving hands—he's trying to lace Kuroko up, but he doesn't resist openly fondling the accentuated swell of Kuroko's ass peeking underneath the corset. Kuroko would've slapped his hands away for groping too much, not when he's supposed to be working, but at the moment, Kuroko would say he's a bit too _preoccupied_ with the sudden asphyxiation seizing him. He shuts his eyes to bury the pain.

"Akashi-san, too tight—"

Another kiss to silence him, this time centred on his spine. "You can."

Breath coming out in short pants, the world bursts into a psychedelic labyrinth of faded lightbulbs and reddened sparks fizzing behind his eyelids. Like he's playing basketball in high school, facing off against Touou and Aomine, it robs him of his breath, but they're two different situations. Comparing basketball to playing dress up, really, what is he thinking?

"Almost done, Kuroko," Akashi whispers, encouraging his efforts. "Then you'll see what you've become."

Or maybe Kuroko's not thinking straight. His mental faculties ceased function and renders him a mannequin—Akashi's mannequin. Only Akashi has the pleasure of stabbing pins into his flesh, moulding his arms and legs to fashion him into a pose, parading clothes designed because of him, _for_him. Never a kindergarten teacher, only a catwalk-worthy supermodel.

At this, Kuroko bites back a laugh. He's clearly not even thinking anymore.

A warm gust of air whips against his ear and Kuroko cringes at the foreign contact. Akashi's voice comes again, softer, smoother. _Seducing._ "Good work. I'm going to need you to part your legs a bit wider for this one."

Reluctantly, Kuroko shifts his feet, exposing him more. What does that make of him, a cheap harlot? "Is this enough?"

"Thank you, Kuroko."

Of course not. Standing in Akashi's dressing room removes all sense of inhibition. He erases all sketchy lines of Kuroko's shame and regret, and redraws them in the process. Nobody gets a say in it. Akashi's already stripped him from his clothes and now he's trying to sew together two separate continents of Kuroko's mind: joining the feminine in his features, and the masculinity of his body.

Nothing is ever gendered to him.

"Raise your right foot, then your left foot, please."

Kuroko obliges, hanging his head, eyes still closed. Something slips past his ankles and skids up his calves, stretching over his thighs, and then_something_ cool clings to his crotch and ass. Elastics snap into place over his hipbones and stays there, a permanent intruder. He doesn't need to see to know what it is. Kuroko's cheeks burn with shame.

"Akashi-san, this better not be what I think it is."

"Too late. Will you raise your foot again? Right, this time."

The objection swallowed down his throat, Kuroko's slick forehead collides against cool glass. He relents.

"Thank you, Kuroko. You're doing a great job holding yourself together," Akashi says again, and this time, he mouths a kiss on Kuroko's inner thigh. "A bit more, then I'm done."

Urgency rises in sharp peaks at Akashi's promise of completion, but what about the outcome? Kuroko doesn't want to look to know this is a bad idea—had been a bad idea from the start itself. He's a teacher, a model to the kids. What if they know about this? What if it leaks out? Will he lose his reputability?

"Put your neck out a bit—yes, like that, good."

"I feel like a chicken on a chopping board," says Kuroko dryly.

Akashi replies with a breathy laugh. "Then be honoured I'm skinning you alive."

Kuroko's head twists to fit the strange tension introduced around his neck, circling him like a noose. Fabric, rigid boning, scratchy lace, a conflict of sensations invade him from all directions. He must've been shaking because Akashi's whispering something to him, but the only thing Kuroko grasps is: "Look at yourself."

He slowly opens his eyes at the command.

Propped up against Akashi's chest, a man stands weakly.

Kuroko thinks the sticklike insect in the glass would've fallen over if the redhead behind him hasn't been supporting the weight. In an ensemble of girlish wardrobe, he's feverishly pale. Only the sickest pink warms his cheeks. There's no mistaking the flat plane of chest deceptively covered by the corset to disguise the lack of plump breasts, nor the matching panties stretched over the disgusting bulge of a penis. No excuses justified the single garter clenching his thigh with waves of flaked gold leaves crowning a garnet gem, or even the neck corset cradling his head like a blue cornflower growing in the heart of red frills.

"See how they fit you perfectly," Akashi says. There are fingers digging into the man's hips, but why is Kuroko the one experiencing the bruising pain? "You look good like this, Kuroko."

There it is again, what he said to Kuroko yesterday, reintroduced today.

Everything comes together at once like a lens whipping into focus so sharp, it hurts his eyes. In the reflection of juxtaposed red on blue, Kuroko sees the untranslatable beauty he's become.

He doesn't dare to touch the mirror in fear of breaking the man within.

"I made this with you in mind," Akashi says again, like he doesn't notice how Kuroko's coming undone in his arms. His hands on Kuroko's hips squeezed experimentally as if asking for permission, but anyone who knows Akashi _knows_ he doesn't ask, he _takes_. "In the pictures Kise gave me, you always wore blue, brown, black, white or grey. I wanted to see you in red."

Choked, either by the neck corset or by words, Kuroko struggles to answer. "And now I am."

The other man laughs at his wit, shaking his head warily. "If you have that much of energy, then you're fine. I thought you were slightly shaken by how it turned out."

"I—"_am in a corset and panties and a garter and a neck corset, and I'm not sure how to react_, is what he wants to say, but the garble of words only translated into a meagre, "I think your design looks nice, Akashi-san."

Nice? Who is he kidding?

Full-blown baroque, over the top appliqués stitched into the corset would've looked gaudy and downright atrocious if it were anyone else attempting it. But the bias falls not Akashi's unconventional design. He shreds all traditionalism with his scissors and threads in hundreds of black pearls over the swirls gathered on the corset, then slays the fragility it represents with silver studs. The fight between opulence and decadence Kuroko exudes with just a corset alone is frightening.

Akashi, on the other hand, seemingly enjoys the trance Kuroko's in. Spellbound, captivated, whipped to become his private fashion monster.

He snakes an arm over Kuroko's chest and splays his fingers over the bottom of Kuroko's jaw, the obsessive entity possessing him. "I'm pleased you think so. I took great consideration to see what fits you, since this is an experimental piece."

Kuroko drops his arms after bracing himself against the wall for a while and tips his head backwards, hitting Akashi's shoulder. His words come out as a puff. "It doesn't look experimental, Akashi-san. You know what you're doing very well."

"Coming from a teacher, I'm honoured to be praised as such." Akashi chuckles, feasibly amused. His other set of fingers play with the skin over Kuroko's hipbones, occasionally hooking a finger under the strap of the matching underwear, only to snap it back in place. The sharp melody played on Kuroko's flesh stirs a strange frenzy. "Though, you're right. It is experimental in practice, but purely professional in theory. I've known you for three and a half years after all."

Their dangerous game is back in action, though this time, Kuroko isn't sure he'll emerge triumphant.

"You're cheating, Akashi-san," Kuroko breathes out, evenly solidifying his defence against the terrible tease. "I've only known you for a few weeks—you're not playing very fair."

"Is that so?" Akashi laughs under his breath. He smiles a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, a smile so provocative in nature, yet innocently resting his cheek against Kuroko's hair. "You have my apologies then for cheating. I wasn't aware I'm currently being evaluated for a test. Will you fail me, Kuroko?"

The _jerk_. Kuroko slowly clenches his fists and fights to stand his ground. "It depends."

"On?" Akashi presses on, hands now dropping to rub down Kuroko's underwear-clad ass like he's savouring cool silk against rapidly warming skin. "You have my word that I'll play fairly this round." It's an oath that breaks in clean halves when Akashi reaches to the front to cup his groin, tearing a groan from Kuroko. "_Promise._"

In the mirror, they're filthy contrasts—straight out of a pornographic video of a cross-dressing man and a rich stranger. They're playing the roles of glamorous lifestyles from two separate worlds. Everyone watching knows the script; they'll fuck in front of the mirror under full-blown lights with cum streaking over his corset, and a single leg up. The crotch of the panty is tucked aside to make way for the rich stranger's cock right up his ass, and the corset-clad man makes lewd moans that'll echo all around the dressing room.

"You look really good in this," Akashi says, again with the smile that suggests things beyond their control. "It's a shame they're all coming off."

In reality, it's not far off from porn anyway.

Point A to Point B of sex fizzles out of order when Akashi latches his teeth onto the rim of his ear and alternates between soft nibbles and bites. Nobody's ever told Kuroko his ears are an erogenous zone—and no thanks to Akashi, he's been rudely enlightened. The wet suctions heighten the growing clenches in his belly, and something jolts to life under Akashi's caring ministrations of repeated groping.

His legs almost give in and he falls back to bracing his arms on the wall again, knees shaking, thighs trembling, just _shivering_ at how hard Akashi squeezes him through the silk. Kinky fucking isn't Kuroko's thing, that's probably Kise's side, but protests die as soon as Akashi promptly withdraws his hand and leaves him cold all over.

"Come on, Kuroko, it's a waste if you don't look at yourself."

Akashi goads him, oh he goads him so. Kuroko doesn't realise he's hanging his head again when Akashi's fingers push his chin up, and he finds himself face-to-face with a panting whore staring back at him. Blown blue pupils, parted pink lips, red cheeks, red red red all over just how Akashi wants him.

Behind him, Akashi drapes himself over Kuroko's hunched back and nuzzles his neck. Hot, moist breath warms his ear. "You look good in red, Kuroko. Do you believe me now?"

It isn't a question, not when Akashi doesn't grace him with enough seconds to answer. The hand drops and dips under the panties, grabs a fistful of aching cock, and Kuroko's soft gasp answers everything.

* * *

><p>Friday.<p>

As much as he tried to get into the swing of things, the ghost of Akashi's hand fisting him lingers. Drowsy beyond belief, Kuroko barely recalls getting out of bed and performing his routine actions to get to work. The stuffy train, the cold walk, the dark kindergarten, just everything floats through his head in a lazy stream. At 9:29, Kagami drags him into the staff room with an exasperated grunt.

"They're little monsters, I swear to God—" Kagami grits out, scrunching his nose. Almost consciously, he brings up his quivering hands and sniffs at them, paranoid. "Ugh, the stench—how do kids pee that much!? It's like Sawahara didn't pee for ten years and stocked up in his bladder to unleash that on the futon—"

Kuroko stares out of the window. His mouth moves but his eyes don't. "He's only six, Kagami-kun. Ten years isn't possible."

"—_years, to see you like this," Akashi murmurs against his cheek, sucking on the rosy flesh, so wetly, so violently. His wrist flicks up and down, up and down, up and down his moist cock, fingers thumbing the precum dripping from his slit. "You wear them better than my models do."_

"Even Kohina-san wanted to suspend Sawahara, but who'd ever suspend a kid for peeing anyway?" Kagami prattles on. "His classmates were laughing at him for wetting the bed and I just _can't_ get angry at him, Kuroko, you get me? How can I get angry at a kid who's being laughed by his friends?"

Dispossessed, Kuroko only nods. "Maybe we should call his parents and talk to him about this. We can find the solution from there if we get their cooperation." The languid sag of his head goes unnoticed by Kagami.

_Pressed so unbearably closed to Akashi, back to chest, face to mirror, Kuroko pants audibly. He's a wrecked mess in red, one leg up hoisted by Akashi's arm, the crotch of his panties tuck to one side. He doesn't remember how he got to this point where Akashi's pulled his hard cock out of his slacks, a slick hot slide over Kuroko's thigh. "Look, Kuroko, you're making that face—"_

Kagami rakes a hand through his hair and blows a huge breath out of his mouth. "That's the last time I want to handle the class, you take over the next round, right, Kuroko?"

"—_right, Kuroko?" Akashi says, licking a stripe up his nape. With the neck corset already loosened and tossed to the side, as promised, he bites down on the pale column of Kuroko's neck—hard, like he's trying to tame an animal. Kuroko keens high in his throat, oh he sounds like those AV actresses Aomine likes to watch, the ones with the bouncing boobs, but Akashi responds with a low groan of his own and pulls Kuroko down onto the carpet._

Just thinking about it reminds Kuroko of the teeth imprint to his right.

It doesn't sting as much as it did last night when Akashi soothes him with warm laps of his tongue, and the peppered kisses over the marks makes it better almost right away. But… covering it up was a hassle. Akashi doesn't even bother with an apology; rather, he eyes it with an almost too smug smile and shushes Kuroko with a kiss. The only thing Kuroko does to steer the questions of 'getting laid' and 'with who' away is to slap a Salonpas heating pad over it and pass it off as some twisted joint pain.

(that and enduring Kagami's snorting laughter, calling him an old man)

"Anyway, I'm gonna go see if Kumiko-san needs any help in the kitchen. I don't wanna see a remake of Hell's Kitchen in reality. Cover me while I'm gone."

With that, Kagami rolls the chair off, tucks it back under the table, and yawns as he exits the staff room.

Despite being good friends with Kagami, the relief shows on Kuroko's face as he watches the man's retreating back. After what transpired last night, he doesn't think he's able to look at Kagami in the eyes and expect him to believe nothing happened. Going through high school days and work together has made Kagami into Kuroko's second mother, and if there's anyone who'd know if Kuroko had it up his ass last night, it's none other than Kagami.

—well, Akashi didn't exactly fuck him senseless on the ground afterwards, but Kuroko comes close to asking Akashi to put him out of his misery, only to meet with appalling disappointment afterwards. Not to say Akashi hadn't blown him out of his mind with a fantastic hand job and some, well, _biting_ that Kuroko adamantly refuses to admit he's got a thing for.

Cradling his head in his hands, Kuroko deafens himself from the noisy children coming down the hallway and inhales.

He thought he had everything in control. Accepting his newfound sexuality hadn't been an easy feat like buying a new book and digesting it in his brain; it meant smashing his traditional beliefs of settling down with a proper girl and producing grandchildren for his parents. Achieving all that in less than two weeks, really, someone should be applauding him for his stellar achievement. Yet Akashi continues casually reminding him that he's nobody in the ride: Akashi's steering the wheel, it's Akashi's car, so it's his rules.

No one told Kuroko he'd be signing up for some modern soap opera if it meant getting involved with Akashi. Romantic sunset dates and gorgeous flower bouquets are the least of his concerns right now, not when they skipped all steps of courting and went fucking instead. It shouldn't have mattered how good Akashi's cock felt between his thighs last night, how he rubbed against Kuroko's puckered entrance, slick and wet, and the press of his fingers trying to introduce new heights of pleasure to his body.

And Kuroko _shouldn't_ feel his body heating up like this in the staff room, really. His body remembers Akashi, even without his presence.

If Aomine were here, he would've consoled by saying, _"Cheer up Tetsu, at least it was a great fuck, right?"_

Wrong. Akashi invades his life and violates him in the worst possible ways, harrowing his lifestyle and chucking everything he knows right into the bin—

The beep of Kuroko's cellphone vibrates on the desk.

**Date:** 11/7/2014  
><strong>Time:<strong> 11:40 a.m.  
><strong>Sender:<strong> Akashi Seijuro  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Lunch  
><strong>Message:<strong>  
><em>I'll pick you up at one.<em>

Kuroko stares at the screen, blank.


End file.
